A/N: Hello, people!
I don't own Sherlock.
I have no beta.
ENJOY!
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-Posted early because I have the flu and might not get back on later tonight.
Feeling like shit.
16 December 2015, Wednesday:
Sherlock had never been in the middle of a war zone, but if he were to describe one, it would be just like this. He and John and twenty-five armed men and women of MI6 were in a shootout with two Neo-Nazi gangs.
Having realised that they had gotten the attention of several people who sought to terminate their existence, the gangs decided to work together to take out all the members of MI6. Of all the places to have this kind of fight, they chose a junkyard.
Sherlock had jumped in a skip before, had gone skip fishing for objects that he needed, but he had never been in a junkyard and it smelled terrible. Not only the rust on the cars, but the stench of body odor, blood, gunpowder, and so many other things spoiled the air around them.
There were loud explosions and screams and Sherlock could barely keep his eye on where John was. John was rolling back and forth shooting enemies down with a apparent ease and reloading his rifle every time it was empty. Sherlock realised how privileged he was to see John in his element, doing what he had been doing for years. None of the people they were fighting beside them knew who John was, and would most likely not pay attention to anything that he was doing other than shooting people down, so it was basically Sherlock. Sherlock would be the only person that John knew intimately, who got to see him in such a way.
He had to admit, John was very sexy when he was all business.
Sherlock's attention was drawn back to their opponents. He really had to wonder how groups as big as these two managed to traverse almost the entire length of EurAsia without getting caught. They were so obvious it was annoying.
Obviously somebody carrying that much firepower was a threat and obviously somebody should have looked into it. The fact that Great Britain had to come to the defence of the mainland and end such a threat, was an insult to all who came before.
Sherlock shot down a man for John, and felt pride run throw him when the man collapsed, his gun falling limp beside him. No one was going to take John Watson away from him and no one will take him away from John Watson.
Sherlock had never shot anyone before. He'd never actually killed anyone either, and he really had to admit that it wasn't as bad as some people claimed it was. It was probably because he was used to seeing dead bodies all the time that the prospect and art of killing, personally did not affect them in the least.
There weren't many left now. One of Mycroft's men had a grenade launcher and they had used it twice already, blowing up several cars and people.
Sherlock ducked behind a stray car, counting in his head how many shots had flown by him. He waited a few seconds and aimed for his assailant.
Everything slowed down suddenly and it was as if he could see even the dust particles in the air. Something hot and painful had pierced his abdomen the same moment his bullet went straight through the enemy's left eye. Sherlock was falling backward, slow and steady, his body collapsing from the sudden intrusion and shock.
There were shouts and screams of worry, and Sherlock could just barely hear John's voice over the din. Someone was shaking him but he was unable to respond. His mind palace beckoned and Sherlock allowed himself to slip away into his mind in order to escape the pain of reality.
"SHERLOCK!"
A/N: Another is done!
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